


You're Not a Sarlacc

by Pangea



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, PWP, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is a bounty hunter on a mission that requires him to brave the harsh, unforgiving desert of Tatooine.</p>
<p>Things do not exactly go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not a Sarlacc

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [You're Not a Sarlacc | 你不是个沙拉克 原文by Pangea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771642) by [ecsweetie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecsweetie/pseuds/ecsweetie)



> With thanks to **groovyphilia** for encouraging, and **PippinPips** for all the word wars to help me get this done.
> 
> _Frick_.

Somewhere between tracking down the exact Jawa clan that was rumored to have the very rare part his client was after, discovering that Jawa hadn’t even heard of the part before, let alone actually have it, and accidentally picking a fight with some Tusken Raiders—and it _was_ an accident, because how was he supposed to know that the Sand People don’t take kindly to someone just trying to pass through their territory as quickly as possible, so _touchy_ —Charles decides that he sincerely hates Tatooine and why couldn’t they have tested out the Death Star here instead of on Alderaan.

“I hate sand,” he announces to the desert at large as he trudges along the top of a particularly large sand dune.  He hopes that each individual grain of sand is ashamed of itself.  “I hate sand, I hate Sand People, I hate deserts, and I hate Tatooine.”

The desert sulks silently, having no rebuttal to offer.  As it shouldn’t, he thinks viciously as he adjusts his grip on the helmet tucked under his arm.  It’d become too hot for him to continue wearing it without the risk of passing out due to heatstroke.  The rest of his armor is becoming stifling too but there’s no way he’s going to take it off.  It’s hard enough to carry his bulky, awkward-when-not-being-worn helmet on one side while keeping his blaster cocked and ready on the other, because who knows what else is lurking out here in this godforsaken wasteland.

His hoverbike is a wrecked mess a couple miles back, from when the Raiders had shot him down in midflight.  Charles is probably lucky he hadn’t broken his neck but now he’s beginning to wonder if that would have been a swifter release from this hellhole.  He’d fought off the Raiders, killing a couple of them to make a point, so at least he’s not being chased but he knows for a fact that he’s still at least 20 miles out from Mos Eisley, where his ship waits.  A manageable distance if he still had, oh, a hoverbike, for example, or perhaps a nice two-seater cruiser, but the harsh reality is that he’s stuck walking with what he estimates has to be at least a quarter of the desert’s total amount of sand lodged in his boots.

He has sand in other places too, but he’s desperately trying not to think about it.  So far this is not working.

“This is what I get for coming to the Outer Rim in the first place,” he tells himself.  He supposes that normally this is about the time where he should start wondering if the heat’s starting to get to him, talking to himself like this, but Charles always keeps up a running narrative so this is nothing new or particularly worrisome.  At least he thinks it’s not.  Too late either way.  “I get shot at, _sunburnt_ , and sand up my—”

The rest of what he was going to say is regrettably cut off when the sand beneath him abruptly opens up, almost as if he’s stepped on thin ice instead of tiny particles of rock.  This is annoying in of itself because when one is walking across a certain substance one expects it to act like itself and not something completely different, but beggars cannot be choosers.  Charles plunges downwards with a distressingly urgent yelp, plunging into darkness and dropping both his helmet and his blaster at the same time.  At precisely this moment, all other bounty hunters across the galaxy collectively wince in secondhand embarrassment.

They also cringe a little too, because when Charles hits the ground at the bottom of the pit he’s suddenly fallen into with a wild cascade of gritty sand, he also hits his head which causes everything to go dark and yeah, that’s _got_ to hurt.

 

X

 

Charles wakes an indeterminable amount of time later and immediately comes to three swift conclusions.

The first is that he at least has not fallen into a sarlacc.  Evidence for this includes the fact that he’s not writhing in pain as he’s slowly digested, which doesn’t sound even remotely pleasant come to think of it, as well as the fact that sarlaccs are kind of hard to miss as they involve giant pits rimmed with teeth casually waiting for idiotic, unsuspecting prey whereas whatever he’s fallen into had…come from literally nowhere, which means he only—so far—falls into the category of _unsuspecting_.

The second is that he is completely naked.  Evidence for this includes the fact that he is _completely naked._

The third is that the floor beneath him is moving and something is touching him.

“Why do things like this keep happening to me?” Charles asks absolutely no one—or at least he assumes so, right up until the point he sits up and his vision adjusts to the dim lighting, finding himself face-to-face with the most attractive thing a desert wasteland could possibly offer.

He cuts a dashing figure, with a chiseled face that have probably been carved by the desert winds to perfection itself and a bare, muscular chest that would probably fill out a flight suit _quite_ nicely, Charles suspects, but only if flight suits could be tailored to accommodate approximately fifty purple tentacles instead of two legs.

Okay, well, maybe there aren’t _fifty_ purple tentacles but Charles thinks a miscount on his part can be forgiven as he’s feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment.  Whatever the exact number of tentacles is, there are a lot of them, and they account for the reason why the floor feels like it’s moving as Charles realizes that he’s sitting directly on top of a mass of them.  They’re slimy, which makes no sense at all, and he shudders at the sensation they leave against his inexplicably bare skin as he and their owner stare at each other.

“Uh,” Charles says eloquently, “you’re not a sarlacc.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth it occurs to him that a creature such as this one may find it offensive to be mistaken as a sarlacc, and it doesn’t help that the creature’s immediate response is to show its large, numerous teeth.  Or perhaps that’s a smile.  Either way it is frankly alarming and Charles tries not to think that he’s about to be devoured.  Maybe that’s how it hunts; open giant pit beneath prey’s feet, strip prey naked, smile prey to death.  It feels like it’s working.

“You’ll do,” the creature decides, and wraps a tentacle around each of Charles’ wrists.

“What,” Charles says blankly, because _that_ was rather unexpected, and only later will he realize that this is the last coherent thing he is able to say for quite some time.

The tentacles squeeze his wrists, not tightly enough to hurt but enough to make it clear that he won’t be escaping their grip anytime soon.  They pull Charles’ arms straight out on either side of him while two more tentacles each wrap around his ankles, pulling his legs apart, and Charles is now hyperaware of how exposed he is, splayed out like some kind of sacrificial offering.

He doesn’t even have time to protest before yet another tentacle wraps around his waist and bears him back down against the rest of the tentacles that continue to slowly shift beneath him, rubbing against him and making him shiver.  He twists his hips, tugging against the tentacles fastened around him and is not surprised when they barely allow him to move, giving him a small jerk in response.

“Be still.”

Two tentacles slowly trace their way down his sides in mirrored pathways, ghosting across his ribs and drawing patterns on his stomach with trails of their slippery substance.  Every light stroke sets fire to his nerves, his body tingling all over as he shifts again in his living bonds without really meaning to, frustrated without really knowing why.  He’s breathing heavily, breath coming out in stuttering gasps as the tentacles touch him, feeling him all across his chest and leaving arousal churning in his gut, strong and potent.

Charles lets out a strangled gasp when the two rounded tips of the tentacles trail back up his body to reach his nipples and rub slow, maddening circles around the nubs until they pebble to hardness, teasing over the sensitive skin until he’s trying to arch up into the touch which is both too much and not at all enough.  He’s held down by the other tentacles still gripping his arms and legs, slowly winding their way upwards from his wrists and ankles so that he is completely ensnared with no leverage at all. 

Charles’ cheeks flush red as he imagines exactly what kind of wanton display he must be putting on, wrapped in tentacles and attempting arching up into the touch of more, arms and legs spread invitingly wide.  Charles lifts his head slightly to look up at the creature only to find it— _him_ —watching him with bright, gleaming eyes appraisingly.

A third tentacle snakes around his throat, and while it doesn’t choke him it provides just enough pressure to remind him of its presence and that it _could_ cut off his air at any second, leaving him completely and utterly at the creature’s mercy—as if he wasn’t already.  The sound Charles makes startles them both; a low moan that grinds its way out from deep within Charles’ vocal chords, and Charles’ cheeks burn now as his captor gives another wide smirk.

His flush is a full-body one, spreading all the way down his chest and stomach to his hardening cock that’s beginning to stand up against his belly, growing slick with beads of precome pearling at the head.  A tentacle slides up his thigh, nudging in between his open legs and fondling his balls.  Charles jerks with a whine as its tip slips further down to drag back and forth across his perineum, tracing the soft, sensitive skin there and making him squirm in the other tentacles’ unrelenting hold.  It’s maddening to be touched only there, just below his cock and balls and just above the only next logical location of this slow, downwards exploration—Charles feels like he’s teetering on a very fine edge, breathless and straining with anticipation for the fall.

“ _Ngh_ —” Charles lets out a choked sound as the tentacle begins to circle his exposed hole, the touch feather-light and teasing around the edges of where he desperately wants it to be.  His arms are suddenly dragged up over his head by way of the tentacles grasping them, forcing his upper body into a long stretch, and using what little leverage he’s gained Charles tries to rock his hips, struggling in their hold as the tentacle near his hole continues to circle, around and around and around until he’s nearly sobbing with need, his arousal so heady that it’s all he can concentrate on.

His tormenter watches him calmly as he alternatively quivers and thrashes, held fast by multiple tentacles that never let up, holding him down and spread out in place with so little effort it’s nearly laughable.  Two tentacles continue to play with his nipples while the one down below never ceases its slow circling, and yet another tentacle slithers up to trace his lips, glossy with its own slime, before pressing forward until Charles tilts his head back obligingly and opens his mouth so it can push inside.  It slides across his tongue, stroking the inside walls of his cheeks and the roof of his mouth, so Charles closes his eyes and sucks, relishing the stretch of his lips around the circumference of the smooth, rounded tentacle and the fullness of it in his mouth, breathing harshly through his nose with the ever-constant reminding pressure of the tentacle wrapped around his throat.

Charles moans around the tentacle thrusting gently in his mouth when the one tracing around his entrance finally dips inside his hole, quick and light and only for a moment; not nearly enough to fill him and so brief he nearly sobs when it pulls back out again, its way made easy by its own slick.  The tentacle continues this new form of tantalizing torture, dipping in and out of him in intervals that are never regular so that he has no way to expect when he’ll be breached.  The tentacle never stays for long, pulling back out of him entirely before he can even get used to having a wriggling tentacle inside him.  He’s so hard that it almost hurts, the churning in his gut white-hot now and he feels like he could literally explode, nerve ends dancing anxiously with the need for release.

His straining, leaking cock is leaving a smear of precome across his stomach, and Charles opens his eyes to throw a pleading look over to the owner of the tentacles who still watches him, appearing completely unruffled even as he slowly takes Charles apart.  He sees Charles looking and smiles, holding eye contact with him as he finally, finally, finally slides his tentacle all the way into Charles’ ass in one smooth glide.

Charles gives a full-body flex as the tentacle pushes in deeply, almost biting down on the one in his mouth as he lets out a muffled yell.  He can feel every inch of the tentacle moving inside of him, wiggling back and forth—where it’s not thick it more than makes up for it in length.  It thrusts into him carefully, straight and long at first and Charles’ legs jerk helplessly in their tethers as he automatically tries to close them, unable to escape as the tentacle slides back and forth inside him mercilessly.  He can feel himself careening on the edge, closer and closer to tipping over—

“Don’t come yet,” his captor orders calmly, and Charles groans as a new tentacle wraps itself around the base of his cock, holding him back from the release he desperately needs.

Charles writhes in his bonds uselessly but all they allow him to do is lie there and take it as the tentacle’s thrusts speed up, fucking into him again and again.  The tip of the tentacle begins to crook up deep inside him, brushing across his prostate and sending hot sparks shooting up his spine to burst behind his eyes as it strokes over the bundle of nerves repeatedly.  He still has the tentacle in his mouth but his lips have long since fallen open wide, moaning continuously and not even able to care as he reflexively thrashes, delirious with pleasure.

Gradually the tentacle begins to slow, bringing him back down slightly from feverish, flat-out need to where he can think a little straighter, but Charles whines in frustration anyway.  The tentacle keeps up a steady pace, fucking him evenly and beginning to twist back and forth a little inside him until he’s shuddering at the slimy glide as it slides in and out.

Then it thrusts in deeply, pushing in and in and in until Charles is almost certain that he’ll be able to feel it in his throat, his entire spine going rigid on the bed of tentacles beneath him.  He’s never felt so _full_ in his entire life, with a tentacle buried deep inside him and stretching his ass open.  He wants to come so badly, his balls tight and his cock leaking precome in nearly a steady stream, but still held at bay by the tentacle wrapped neatly around the base.  He can feel himself sweating, his skin incredibly slippery between his own sweat and the slime from the tentacles and he wonders if it’s actually possible to die from too much of— _this_.

“Hold still for me,” the creature croons, and then the tentacle inside Charles pulls back out slowly, though not all the way; just far enough for a second tentacle to press against his hole, carefully pushing in beside the first.

Charles makes a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a whimper, and the tentacle in his mouth gently pulls out so he can take in deep, gasping breathes, his lungs heaving like bellows as he’s penetrated by two tentacles at once.  He can feel them each moving separately inside him, wiggling against his inner walls and each other, slipping and sliding until they work up a matching rhythm.  They pump into him simultaneously, staying evenly together, and this time it feels like he’s taking in a much thicker cock that still has the same too-long length as before.

The tentacles beneath him begin to shift, more of them wrapping around his torso and hips until he’s practically bound head to foot but Charles hardly notices, gasping and panting for breath as the two tentacles continue to pound into him, slowly but steadily speeding up again.  He feels himself being lifted, cradled in the grasp of multiple tentacles as they hold him up in midair, one deftly cradling the back of his head so he doesn’t flop backwards awkwardly.  They hold him horizontally so that he’s lying flat in midair, the two tentacles in his ass rigidly still and unmoving inside him.

A wild cry tears its way out of Charles’ chest when the tentacles holding him begin to move, swinging him back and forth and slamming him back against the two in his ass, fucking him on them while he writhes in midair, his legs still held open wide.  The two tentacles remain absolutely still, crooked upwards at a slight angle so that every time Charles is slammed back against them they hit his prostate, leaving him a babbling mess and unable to even see straight, his vision wavering wildly.

The tentacles around his body tighten their hold on him and flip him upwards so that he dangles as if standing on air, all his blood instantly rushing south now that he’s upright again.  The tentacles hold him still and steady, gentle where they could hurt, but still keep his legs open while the two in his ass begin to move again, fucking up into him from below.  They start out moving together, thrusting as one, but soon they switch rhythms so that they’re moving opposite of each other—one thrusting in while the other pulls back and then vice-versa, rubbing in opposing directions inside Charles until his toes are curling, head thrown back and spine arched in one long curve with his mouth open wordlessly, too overwhelmed to even make a sound.

It’s obscene.  It’s utterly obscene the way the two tentacles are thrusting counterpoint inside him with a soft, wet, squelching noise and hitting his prostate every time relentlessly.  When Charles manages to look down all he can see is his aching cock, straining upwards, along with the long trail of tentacles leading back down to the ground from where they hold him up as if he’s weightless, and then the two that are moving, pistoning up into him.

They change pattern again abruptly, matching each other once more, slamming up into him together in perfect unison and it’s too much, and not enough, and Charles lets out one more harsh, jagged sob because if he doesn’t come right now he’s going to _die_ —

The tentacle around his cock loosens, and he hears the murmur, “Come for me,” as the tip swipes across his wet slit and Charles comes with a scream, his vision whiting out as his entire body throws itself into the orgasm, shaking apart in the tentacles’ grip as he clenches down tightly on the tentacles in his ass.  The rest of the world fades away, his awareness narrowing down to a small pinpoint of existence as he trembles through the aftershocks, not even aware of being lowered back down gently.  The tentacles around his torso slowly unwind themselves, slipping off his heaving chest entirely, while the ones wrapped around his arms and legs carefully recede back down until they’re only gripping his wrists and ankles loosely.

Charles lets out a broken whine as he feels the tentacles in his ass slide out one by one, slowly and carefully so that they don’t hurt him but he can’t help but cringe at the drag against his oversensitive skin.  He feels achingly empty and loose without the tentacles inside him.

He discovers that he’s allowed to move for himself again when he squirms at the sensation of a large amount of slime leaking out of his hole down his thighs, finally able to close his legs.  He brings his arms back down to his sides as well and the tentacles allow him, merely following along with his motions to keep their light grip on him.

Charles doesn’t move much after that, lying still and panting, trying to catch his breath.  He has no idea what’s just happened besides having what is without any doubt whatsoever the greatest orgasm in the entire galaxy, on _Tatooine_ no less.  In a sand pit far out in the middle of the desert with a creature-man-individual-who-is-not-a-sarlacc with a questionable amount of tentacles but Charles thinks he can overlook that part because truly— _sublime._

“What,” Charles says again, using only one of his many words.  It’s really not his fault that this is an off day for him and seeing as how he’s actually somewhat surprised that his brain isn’t currently leaking out of his ears right now from being utterly mind-blown he thinks he could be cut a little slack on the word front.

“Erik,” his companion says in what he probably believes is in a helpful way but the reality is Charles can only stare at him as if he’s grown an extra head.  But what’s an extra head in the face of three hundred and four tentacles?

“Erik,” Charles repeats when what little is left of his brain matter finally catches up and he realizes that he’s been given a name, of all things.  “Hi.”  He’s on a roll now; he’s practically on fire.  Sand People beware.

“Hello.” Erik sounds amused, and amusement sits on him attractively which is only one more thing to add to the long list of things about him that are rather unfair.  He’s smirking again, lifting one tentacle up idly to brush across Charles’ cheek.  “You did so well for me.”

“This,” Charles says, and then gets his thoughts in order.  It’s tricky business, especially when his heart rate still isn’t yet back to normal.  “This isn’t the part where you break my neck and eat me, is it?”

Erik blinks.  “How barbaric.”

“Quite,” Charles agrees fervently.

“No,” Erik continues, moving his body forward by way of a few graceful contortions of extra tentacles, which make him look like he’s flowing effortlessly across the sandy floor of the pit until he’s looming over Charles.  “I think I’ll just keep you.”

“Um,” Charles says loquaciously.

Erik studies him, his laser-like gaze arresting enough that it doesn’t even cross Charles’ mind to move, staring back up at the damnably attractive alien who just wrung the best orgasm of his life out of him using, technically, no hands.  Erik didn’t even break a sweat.  Charles wonders if it’s possible for Stockholm Syndrome to set in so quickly.

A proposal, Charles thinks, may be a little too gauche at this stage.

Erik sighs lightly.  “I suppose I’ll let you go,” he says, even while his tentacles remain wrapped around Charles’ wrists, ankles, and throat.  Charles thinks he should feel disappointed at the words.  No, relieved.  Wait a moment.  This is harder than he expected.  “But first you’re going to have to help me with a little problem.”

“A problem,” Charles repeats for lack of better words.  Ratings for his sentience are not looking high.  He probably ought to quickly solve a small math equation or write a short poem to be on the safe side.

“Mm,” Erik hums in affirmation absently.  The majority of his attention is focused on his two tentacles that have slid up to begin lightly stroking Charles’ sides.

Charles takes a deep, steadying breath and tries not to squirm as the tentacles skitter across his ribs.  That would only be encouraging.  Yes.  Because he doesn’t want to encourage Erik.  He _doesn’t_.  He bites his lip to hold in a whimper when one of them begins to circle his navel.

“You enjoyed yourself, did you not?” Erik asks him silkily, his low voice practically dripping with sex.  He’s leaning down over Charles now, petting him softly with several tentacles; the two on his chest continue to stroke him while two more brush at his arms and shoulders, and Charles can feel more sliding across his thighs.

“Y-yes,” Charles admits shakily, using every last ounce of willpower he has left to not move.  It’s the truth.  He’d enjoyed himself quite a bit and damn it his cock is starting to stir again, blood pooling as Erik continues to touch him.  Heel, boy— _surely_ this is too soon.

“You could even say I’ve done you a service,” Erik murmurs, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he looks down at Charles.  One of the tentacles on Charles’ thigh slides upwards to ghost along his half-hard cock, starting at the base with his balls and slowly trailing up to edge along the head.

Charles moans, hips twitching where he lies.  “Yes,” he gets out, shifting his arms and legs restlessly, “yes—just—what do you—”

“Just a little tit-for-tat,” Erik says calmly, as if he doesn’t have one tentacle toying with the slit of Charles’ cock.  “I haven’t gotten off yet.”

“You—what,” Charles says blankly.  His breath hitches as Erik rubs his slit, thrusting up into the touch shamelessly.

Erik smirks and rears up, several of the tentacles at the base of his torso parting like vines to reveal a thick shaft, its magenta color bright against all the purple, rising up to greet Charles in almost a friendly wave.

Right, he thinks, staring at it, Erik had been using his tentacles before.  Not his—monstrous dick.

“You’re drooling,” Erik notes, sounding darkly satisfied.  Charles thinks he should be embarrassed or annoyed but right now all he can focus on is the tentacle on his cock and how it is _not enough_ and he shouldn’t be this ready to go for another round in such a short time period.  Erik continues to swipe his tentacle across the head of Charles’ cock, watching as Charles spreads his legs again of his own accord.

“Please,” Charles gasps out with a shudder, “anything— _a-ah_ —just, please, _ngh_ —”

“Very good,” Erik says as if he’d expected nothing less, “except…”

Tentacles swiftly wind around Charles, picking him up and flipping him over, depositing him on his hands and knees, half-sunken down into the seemingly endless mess of tentacles beneath him.  Once again he’s held in place, the tentacle wrapped around his throat remaining in place and tugging back a little as if he’s a pet on a leash.  The thought makes him moan, rocking his hips forward as the tentacle on his cock continues to stroke him.  

He’s already fully hard, slick with slime and precome, and his moan tapers off into a whimper because at this rate he _really_ is going to die.  Here lies Charles, death by sex.  At least that sounds somewhat better than being mauled by any of the various alien beasts he’s usually chasing after for a client.  Though depending on how he looks at it, perhaps he _is_ getting mauled right now.

Charles feels rather than sees Erik come up behind him, tentacles draping around him like a living curtain as Erik mounts him.  He must be doing something tricky with his tentacles behind them because Charles barely feels his weight even though he knows he should.  Erik is a warm, solid pressing along his back, breathing into Charles’ ear before ducking his head down to lick a long stripe along Charles’ neck, just above where his tentacle is wrapped firmly.

“Still so open for me,” Erik murmurs right against his ear.  A tentacle slips between them, worming its way down between Charles’ ass cheeks and sliding up inside his hole so easily that Charles sighs and wiggles his hips as much as he can while it feels around, stretching him and spreading more of its slimy slick inside him.  It’s hardly a stretch at all, given that he’d taken _two_ , so Charles grinds back in frustration, wanting more.

Erik chuckles breathily and Charles shivers as the tentacle withdraws entirely, hyperaware of how open and empty he feels, covered by Erik but all the more exposed because of it.  Erik’s tentacles wrap around his belly and lift him up slightly, gently spreading his legs a little wider and guiding Charles back against his hot, hard cock.  They both groan as Charles sinks back onto Erik, Erik pushing in deeper and deeper until he’s fully seated inside Charles.  It’s thicker and harder than the tentacles, with much less flexibility but still longer than any of the other cocks Charles has ever met so personally.

It occurs to him that he’s completely ruined.

For one long, suspended moment Erik holds him there, long cock buried inside him deeply with his ass flush against Erik’s slippery underside.  The tentacle around his neck gives a light, brief squeeze as Charles scrambles for purchase, his mouth hanging open wordlessly as he tries desperately to find any kind of leverage enough to move against Erik, anything for the friction he’s been denied thus far—

Erik pulls Charles back off his cock until only the tip of the head is resting just inside Charles’ entrance tantalizingly, stretching his hole wide, and then he slams forward, thrusting his cock all the way back into Charles so fast that Charles chokes, swearing wildly as Erik begins to fuck him in earnest.

“You take everything so beautifully,” Erik pants in between rolling thrusts, pounding into Charles with the loud sound of flesh on flesh, his tentacles like a machine as they drive Charles back and forth on his cock.  “I could keep you here for hours, for days, all _mine_ , never letting you out of my grip and always keeping your ass filled—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Charles moans, snapping his hips back with every thrust and nearly going cross-eyed as Erik’s cock hits his prostate on every deep, relentless push.  He is stretched and full, his body aching with the burn of Erik slamming into him over and over again, a hot and heavy drag inside him that is as inescapable as the tentacle stroking off his cock beneath him in time with Erik’s thrusts, hard and fast until Charles’ entire body is seizing up as tightly coiled pleasure in his gut suddenly flares out overwhelmingly.

He comes with a shout, spurting white and sticky all over his own chest and belly and the tentacles holding him up, falling limp in their grasp as Erik continues to fuck into him, impossibly speeding up and losing all sense of rhythm as Charles shakes through the aftershocks of his own orgasm.  Erik growls gutturally into Charles’ ear as he comes, a wet burst of heat deep inside Charles that fills him to the brim and then trickles out down the backs of his thighs even as Erik remains buried inside him.

Erik lets Charles collapse forward, lowering him down and following after him so that they remain connected via Erik’s cock.  Charles can feel it pulsing inside him, still spilling heavy, sticky come into him as Erik settles over him like some kind of large blanket with…ridiculous tassels.  Or something.

Charles shifts weakly where he lies on his stomach, though he isn’t inclined to move much, impaled as he is on Erik’s cock.  All the nerves in his body are still buzzing, raw from two incredible orgasms in a short amount of time, and his thoughts are pleasantly muddled, feeling sluggish as he basks in the afterglow.

“I changed my mind,” he announces, words slightly slurred but who really cares at this point, “I _love_ Tatooine.”


End file.
